


Touch

by Ceres_Libera



Series: Switch [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceres_Libera/pseuds/Ceres_Libera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>However, as far as touch was concerned? He was a connoisseur. In fact, in some circles, Jim Kirk was considered a bit of a <i>savant</i> on the subject … until he met the exception. Because there's always an exception to prove the rule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> _Touch_ is a _Switch_ verse-inverse story written from Jim's point of view. It builds on that story, so things may make more sense if you've read it. It takes place a few months after the _Switch: Epilogue_ , on or about the 4th month of 2259. It is a discrete story, although it is intended to build into the next _Switch_ -verse story, whenever that's completed.

+

Jim Kirk was a genius, which in and of itself wasn’t a particularly helpful attribute. After all, it was completely possible to be really smart about things that were essentially useless.

He knew, for example, how to calculate a degrading orbit. Awesome, but hardly a necessary skill.

Or how many pairs of binary stars there were in the known quadrants. Interesting, but again, not essential.

But Jim Kirk also had skills.

He could size up a room, or a situation and decide on a course of action – fast. He could recognize when he was being lied to, even by non-humanoid species. He had a nose for danger, and a way of getting _out_ of it, as swiftly as he got in it in the first place.

But his intelligences weren’t all about facts, or higher math, or applied theorems.

He knew the best way to muck out a stall, and how to shuck an ear of corn, silk and all, in one twisting, efficient two-handed pull.

Of necessity, he knew – well, he’d learned -- how to feed himself for weeks on a diet of bark, bugs and dirt.

He was an adept adaptive, but that didn’t make him particularly malleable, as many had learned.

And although his genius took many forms, one of his best intelligences was intuitive. He understood movement -- intention, action and impulse -- and not just experientially from his years of fight training.

However, as far as touch was concerned? He was a connoisseur. In fact, in some circles, Jim Kirk was considered a bit of a _savant_ on the subject.

He knew exactly what the intent behind the touch was, what was wanted, what was expected of him. He just _knew_ \-- often before someone touched him -- but always, _always_ once they had.

He _always_ knew … until he met the exception.

Because there's always an exception to prove the rule.

+

Jim was yawning so widely that he cracked his jaw. He pulled his shirts over his head, twisting at the last minute so that he would miss bumping into the divider separating his bedroom from the rest of his quarters.

He loved his job, he really did, but not the fact that Starfleet Command just fucking _loved_ scheduling these useless briefings for the middle of the ship's night. And he got it, really -- they were a young crew, with Starfleet’s youngest Captain ever at the helm, and it was the _flagship_ for fuck's sake, doing its first tour of the Neutral Zone. But Uhura had the best goddamned ears in the fleet, and everybody knew it, and she’d heard nothing alarming in any of her deep sub-space scans. And she was listening to _everything_ , a habit that had become ingrained after what had happened before the Battle of Vulcan.

Besides, it wasn't like there was any secret intel that was being imparted to him during these briefings. Month after month, it was the same role call: the Klingons were rebuilding their shattered Armada, but had begrudgingly accepted both Federation tech and assistance, much to the relief of the UFP; the Cardassians had stepped up both their patrols and their presence near the Neutral Zone, although they'd not become more aggressive – well, not for orders of _aggressive_ that included Cardassians.

As for the Romulans? They were still being totally secretive bastards. _Surprise, surprise,_ the sarcastic voice in his head that sounded a lot like Bones intoned.

Jim knew that there had been negotiations that had gone on far above his head, through diplomatic channels and between the uppermost echelons of government. Uhura had heard, and long-range sensors had confirmed, that UFP science vessels had been permitted through the Neutral Zone. He assumed that this incursion into Romulan space had been allowed because the Romulus in this universe was desperate to understand if it would share the same fate as the one from which Ambassador Spock had come, but that was only his assumption -- because he wasn't goddamned being _told_ anything, at least not in these briefings. He toed at the back of a boot in irritation, stumbling.

No, he was being treated like he was still an angry kid spoiling for a fight -- like he hadn't learned _that_ lesson his first time out of the gate. For all that he could be a brash asshole, he wasn't going to risk his _crew_ for some foolish reason. When it had been just his own neck, that had been one thing. But he’d learned that leadership had a price long before the _Narada_ had upended the universe. Shit, he’d lived that lesson before his voice had stopped cracking.

If he had to wager, he’d bet that he’d seen more death in his 26 years than Carter and Olshansky and that pompous asshole Tu'kk’ai'nian had seen in their Starfleet careers combined. Sometimes he thought that was exactly the problem – that the shock of what had happened to Vulcan had made the Admiralty cautious, left them rudderless, adrift. Vulcans, for better or ill, had served as the elders for many cultures in the Federation, had set themselves up in that role, for all that they had been proved to be fallible years ago. But the loss of the planet itself, the destruction of it and its six billion souls, seemed to some a repudiation of the peaceable values that the Vulcans espoused, and to others, the most bitter irony. For them all, it had left a leadership void in the Federation -- mirrored in its own small way by the void in critical Starfleet personnel, the one that had occasioned his own precipitous rise to the Captaincy, a fact of which some of the Admirals were forever reminding him. As if he would ever forget. As if he _could_.

Although … they all did forget -- in small ways -- until the inevitable reminder would cause a stutter in the flow of words, a minute hesitation until reality caught up to them, even the Admirals. There had been one or two instances when the Admirals most sympathetic to Jim’s daily struggles as a new Captain had caught themselves, on the verge of referring Jim to consult with a Captain who might best advise him. There’d be a blink, and then a stammer, as they searched for words. Jim would bet a billion credits that the speaker had just recalled that the Captain in question was dead. With that feeling, that gut punch of remembering, he could at least sympathize. Bones always claimed that he was a hard-headed pragmatist, and that Jim was a starry-eyed optimist, but the truth was that Jim wasn't really that far off from him, even if he wasn't quite the cynic that Bones -- the most friendly misanthrope ever -- claimed to be. Jim knew that dead was _dead_ and dead meant gone, and yet … a year later, he still caught himself thinking that he should check in with Subie or Irina or …

They were all suffering from various levels of PTSD, but Jim’d had years of experience in dealing with this shit, not that he’d had much of anybody left to share the experience with, after Tarsus. Nor had his familiarity made him immune to the stutter in forward momentum, the little shock that pierced the bubble of normalcy -- it just meant that he always kind of half-expected it and that he knew what to do when it happened. Like earlier in the day when Sulu had flown a particular choice maneuver around a comet, getting Spock some excellent data in the process. Spock had complimented him on his agility, and a smiling Sulu had swung around from his station and demurred credit, saying that he’d copped that move from a pilot named Hurwitz.

Spock had politely asked where Hurwitz served, and even before his lips finished forming the question Jim knew what was going to happen. He swung his chair around to face Sulu, and willed himself not to shift. He kept his legs crossed, kept his posture loose and waited, as Sulu blinked, his usually affable expression becoming crestfallen, before he quietly answered Spock.

"She served on the _Wolcott_ , sir."

Jim had allowed the silence on the Bridge to ripen from respectful notice, but not beyond, ending it by saying, "Then we'll have today’s official report reflect your usage of the Hurwitz Maneuver, Lieutenant Sulu.” He spun in his chair, capturing the Bridge crew’s attention. “Lieutenant Uhura, please forward the report to Lieutenant Sulu so that he can document the Hurwitz Maneuver appropriately."

“With pleasure, Captain,” Uhura had answered with crisp warmth.

Jim swung the chair forward, noting that Sulu’s shoulders had straightened from their slump.

Chekov had announced an upcoming navigational adjustment as they moved into the comet’s debris field, and Sulu had turned his attention back to the helm, missing Chekov shooting Jim a smile of gratitude; Spock had merely tilted his head and looked at Jim in a way that Kirk knew meant that he approved.

So, yeah, they were young, but they weren't untested, and they knew, all of them that had served at the Battle of Vulcan, they knew _exactly_ what was at stake, but it didn't seem to matter to certain members of the Admiralty. It didn't matter that Pike knew that Jim wasn’t going to needlessly endanger his crew, that he would do everything and _anything_ to assure that wouldn’t happen. Instead, like clockwork, Jim had to sit there every two weeks for a ridiculous session where they told him shit he already knew and held back what he really needed to know, just to reinforce his position as their subordinate, simply because they _could_.

Fuckers.

But as annoying as that all was, and it _was_ , it wasn’t the petty politics or the lack of respect that made his hands clumsy with haste as he yanked off his shirts and simultaneously toed off his boots. Nor was it the promise of an abbreviated but restful sleep after a long damned day that made him so intent on getting into bed as fast as possible. No. It was what awaited him in his bed, the prime reason that he paid very careful attention to all the intel that was available, not just what some Commodores and Admirals who were 20 years out of active duty thought was important.

__Bones_._

Fast asleep on his stomach, his brown hair in an unruly arc on his slightly furrowed brow, the soft light emphasizing the line of his strong shoulders above the dark blue covers of Jim's bed. As eager as he’d been to get in bed with Bones just nanoseconds before, Jim found himself arrested at the sight of him, sleeping so soundly with his arms up under the pillow. He stood there with his shirts around his elbows, smiling, as he just _looked_ at Bones, head turned toward the empty side of the bed, like he was waiting for Jim. He had no fear that he’d wake Bones up with his scrutiny, or even by kicking his boots back toward the wall as he was currently doing. Bones had always maintained that he was a light sleeper, but Jim had known for years that the rules that applied to other people didn't apply to him, as far as Bones was concerned.

Well ... more like he figured out how to beat the system, really.

Because as long as Jim was unhurt and calm when he slipped into bed with him, Bones wouldn’t wake. It wasn't like he wouldn't stir, because that had always been the best part of getting into bed with Bones, how he'd respond, even while sound asleep. Long before Jim knew what the hell he wanted to do _about_ Bones, he'd crept into Bones' bed to see if Bones would still make room for him. He'd done that – made room for Jim -- from the very beginning, from the first night that he offered Jim a place to sleep alongside him, just like that, not a thought involved, like Jim … belonged.

He didn't think that Bones would ever really understand what a big deal that was, the idea that Jim was always welcome. Some nights, Bones would rouse enough to sling an arm over Jim, or to kiss him, but that had been later on. In the beginning, Jim had lived for the nights when he would curl up behind Bones, and he would sigh and push back against Jim – or more rarely, when Bones would turn over and wrap his arms around Jim, pressing his face into Jim's neck.

Jim used his undershirt to wipe at his chin where he’d splashed himself while brushing his teeth, before he dropped it on the floor, shucked his pants and slid into bed naked, grinning now. All those months, years really, that he had taken a secret delight in seeing Bones in the bed he’d gotten for him? They had _nothing_ on the feeling it gave him to come back to his quarters on _Enterprise_ , the _Captain’s_ quarters, to see Bones waiting for him in _his_ bed. It was stupid and possessive and probably regressive of him, but he couldn’t fucking help it. It did something to him, and not just his libido, to see Bones sleeping there, to know that he _chose_ to be there, waiting for Jim in his bed. Jim lay in the near dark, watching the faint frown lines that Bones always got when he was thinking too hard even out as he registered Jim’s presence. Jim watched him, blinking drowsily as the warmth emanating from Bones began to relax him better than any sleep aid ever had, while he waited for Bones to make his move. Half a minute later, a long, heavily muscled arm appeared from under Bones’ pillow and reached out for him, as he turned to face Jim fully. Jim held his breath in anticipation of the touch of Bones’ hand, the warmth and weight of it as it dropped onto his chest and slid across and over, coming to rest wrapped around his ribs. Bones’ muscles rippled as he tugged, pulling Jim closer to his warmth; when he’d settled Jim alongside him, he let out a content sigh.

“Lights off,” Jim said aloud in the room, skin still tingling from Bones’ touch, from the slide of flesh and bone and the metal of the ring he wore because Jim had given it to him. He turned onto his side, tucking an arm under his pillow as his eyes adjusted, then awarded him with the sight of Bones sleeping peacefully, lit by the faint illumination of the stars streaking by. He only got to watch Bones for a minute more before Bones' hand ran up and down his spine possessively, tucking Jim against him more tightly as a pleased rumble emanated from his chest.

Jim fell asleep pressing his smile into the warm skin of Bones’ neck.

+

It had always been like that, from the very beginning, Bones’ touch, the way his hands made Jim feel.

+

Well … _that_ was romanticizing it in the extreme, because, you know like every other fucking thing in Jim's life, it was actually a lot more complicated than that. Really, a lot of the time it was like that old joke, the one that went ‘your mouth is saying 'no', but your eyes are saying 'yes'!’ Except Bones' eyes were also saying ‘no,’ most of the time.

And sometimes? Sometimes, they were adding, ‘And fuck off.’

His hands, though … Bones’ hands. Jim had never been indifferent to their touch, no matter what Bones’ eyes or his mouth said.

It was weird, though. Because Jim might not have scored as high on his psi test as Gary Mitchell, but he could intuit a lot from people's tells and infer what it was that they wanted from him, and yeah, _how_ they wanted it. Of course, that didn’t mean that he didn’t get his ass handed to him now and then – he was good, not invincible – but it did explain why he could usually pick up a partner, or two or _whatever_ , for a night’s fun with relative ease. And it wasn’t just their posture or their gestures, where their eyes lingered when they looked at him. The minute someone put their hand -- or whatever they used to touch -- _on_ him, Jim could pretty much knew the intention behind the touch.

So, when McCoy strode across the locker room in the induction center and shoved his fingers into Jim’s fist and unknotted it, he knew what was going to happen next. It wasn’t like the assholes who were talking shit about him were saying anything he hadn’t heard _hundreds_ of times before. And he’d heard McCoy’s intake of breath, knew that the penny had dropped and that now he was George Kirk’s son, not just some guy that he’d shared his flask with on the shuttle. So, whatever. That was _that_. He had other business to attend to, anyway -- although he usually wasn't about giving assholes what they wanted, even if it was a richly deserved asskicking, he was still considering giving it to them anyway. Because, seriously? He wasn't so sure that this whole Starfleet gig was going to work out.

Consequently, he was only half-listening to McCoy yammering, sure as he was of how it would evolve into either the 'don’t sully your father’s memory' speech, or the offer, ever so slightly fawning in its presentation, to join Jim in kicking some ass. No matter which variant it turned out to be, it was bound to be followed by the inevitable questions, the inevitable comparisons, the weighing and measuring that always, _always_ found him lacking.

So, he totally didn’t expect _Bones_ , talking to him and manhandling him into his red tunic, his hands somehow rough and gentle at the same time, their touch impossible to ignore. And he kept those hands on Jim, moving him around in a way that made it clear that he expected to be obeyed.

Jim should have protested, should have whacked those hands off him the way he normally would have, but he was only waiting for the turn in McCoy's monologue while he tracked the insults coming from behind him now, because McCoy’s insistent hands had somehow turned him around, putting his back to the idiots.

And then he realized that McCoy’s sly drawl was murmuring some nonsense about how Jim belonged here and how _he_ was the outsider, and seriously? That was just such insane bullshit that Jim turned his head to actually _look_ at the crazy bastard, and when he did he recognized the smoldering intelligence in those dark eyes, and well … he never could resist a challenge, could he?

So, he flirted and called McCoy ‘Bones’ to see what would happen, but Bones just shoved him and marched him out of the induction center and into the testing room, keeping himself between Jim and trouble and never taking those hands off of him.

+

And Bones never asked the inevitable questions.

Not that night when Jim took him out for a drink.

_Not ever._

And whenever Leonard H. McCoy, M.D., Ph.D to the third power, said the name Kirk, it was clear that he was just talking to and about _Jim_ , period.

+

Which … Jim didn’t really get, because in his experience, people tell you what they want with their touch, and they always wanted _something_ , right?

+

Even Sam.

Mostly, he wanted Jim to shut up so that their mother would lose the pained expression on her face that his questions always seemed to provoke. In most of Jim's earliest memories of Sam, Sam is making the face that Jim called the 'Jesus, Jimmy' in his head, which also came with a hand reaching out to cover Jim's mouth as Sam hissed, "Jesus, Jimmy, stop talking for five whole minutes, OK?"

Sometimes, he wanted Jim to shut up because he was drawing too much attention from one of their mother’s husbands – not that it mattered which one, because they were all pretty much bastards. The first one had come and gone before Jim was five, which meant they’d spent a lot of time together, him and Sam. He’d always enjoyed it, even if Sam was perpetually exasperated with Jim’s constant queries – “I don’t know, Jimmy, just look it up!” -- about how gravity worked or how far was a light year, really?

The thing was, Sam did know, but it was like someone had made up the rules and they all followed them faithfully, without ever having had them explained: Sam was the bad boy, and Jim was the good one. Sam was the tough one, and Jim was the smart one.

He understood now, in a way he hadn't then, exactly what Sam was always trying to protect him from. It wasn't until Sam was dead and gone that Jim had realized how much of a shield he'd been, how much he'd used the unspoken rules about who occupied which role in their family to draw the attention away from Jim, to protect him. But that had been much later, after Jim had stolen the car, after they’d been sent to Tarsus, after he’d learned firsthand that touch was a spectrum sense, and that there were beings who actually _liked_ to inflict pain.

But then, then … before he knew all that and was still ‘Jimmy’ and spoke in a high, rushed voice, looking up at everything and everyone around him with curiosity, the only person who never got sad or exasperated by him and all his questions was Grandpa Tiberius. Instead, he listened carefully, and then would answer him by asking more questions, trying to tease the solution out of Jim in a chain of logic, showing him the way to higher reasoning and understanding.

There wasn't much from his early life that Jim had kept, but there were a couple of things that were precious to him.

One lived on Bones' hand.

Another was a heavily encrypted datachip, with a scrambled back-up on a cloud account owned by a pseudonym, under cover so deep that it would never be hacked. On it were some holos and some vids, but none more precious than the one that his Uncle Brian had taken in early 2233, when Jim had come home to Iowa, after the _Kelvin_. He was still pretty tiny – on the vid, he’s mostly a round pink head wrapped in a blue blanket -- only a little bit bigger than a typical newborn, although he was already a month old. His mother is wan and obviously depressed, blinking tearfully at the noise and clamor of Grandma MacAllister’s kitchen. She surrenders him easily to his Aunt Marinell and clings briefly to his brother Sam before letting him go so that he can clamber up onto Marinell’s lap as she and Grandma Mac peel back Jim’s blankets. Sam is mostly quiet while Marinell and Grandma MacAllister size Jim up, enthusiastically assigning his nose to this cousin, the set of his eyes to another, his feet, his hands and on and on.

Even when she’s not in view of the camera, which is most of the time, Grandma Kirk’s soft crying is audible. When baby Jim gets handed to her, it's clear to Jim that what she sees is her dead boy, re-born. Or maybe Jim just sees that because of how he felt sometimes when she looked right through him and into her own past.

Through all the hubbub in the room, Tiberius is silent. When the camera finds him, he’s always tracking Jim, being passed hand-to-hand as he's weighed and measured by his relatives. Although he was already old in 2233, Tiberius’ back was not stooped like Granddad Jim’s. Instead, Tiberius is a striking figure, tall, like all the Kirk men, but bigger than Jim through the chest, broad-shouldered and strong. His eyes are a blinding shade of blue, his hair and eyebrows totally white with no hint of grey. When baby Jim is finally given to him, he rests Jim’s body on his forearm and raises him up to see him better, gently cupping Jim's head in his big hand. For the first time during the vid Tiberius smiles, right down at Jim's baby self, at the hands Jim is rubbing in front of his face restlessly, maybe trying to get his thumb into his mouth.

"Who do you think he looks like, Pa?" Sam asks in a childish voice, having abandoned Marinell to follow Jim as he traveled around the kitchen.

"He looks just like himself," Tiberius says on the vid, still smiling, his hand almost dwarfing Jim's head. He bends forward while Sam clambers up onto a chair so that he can stare at Jim, too.

Jim's eyes startle open at the sound of Tiberius' deep, gruff voice, and there's an instant where he looks like he might cry, but Tiberius rubs his rough thumb over Jim’s cheek and makes a soothing noise, and Jim stills instead as he looks up and sees his grandfather, his blue eyes mirroring Tiberius' in the sunlit kitchen.

"Hello, Jimmy," Tiberius says.

There is only happiness in the smile he directs at Jim.

+

Jim has another memory, not preserved anywhere on vid, of waking in a hospital to the feeling of strong arms wrapping around his back, lifting him away from the bed. The hold on him had been so strong, so grasping, that he'd struggled against it, still primed for a fight, even though they'd told him repeatedly that he was safe. But he knew, he knew that it didn’t matter what they said because _there was no such thing, there never had been_ , especially not while he still saw Sam crumpling brokenly onto the hard, dusty, useless soil of Tarsus every time he closed his eyes. He clawed at the body over his until he recognized Tiberius' voice and the fight went out of him.

Tiberius relaxed his grip and Jim, so weak and tired, couldn't help but fall back toward the bed. He braced himself for the impact, but Tiberius caught him -- cupping the back of Jim's head in his big hand, his tears falling like rain on Jim's face, on his soul, withered and dry as the hard ground of the blighted planet that had almost claimed him.

"Oh, my Jim." Tiberius' fingers still dwarfed Jim's face as he wiped the tears that he'd cried off Jim's cheeks, where they stood in for the tears that Jim was incapable of crying for himself, for Sam and Aurelan, for Marinell and Brian, for Bobby and Baby Emme, for Hoshi-baasan. He blinked against the warm brine of the tears and squinted up at Tiberius, unsure if he was really here or there -- or still dreaming -- and Tiberius nodded like he knew what Jim was thinking.

"You're home, Jim," he said to him with assurance, even though his voice was cracking with strain. “I promise you. You’re home.”

+

Tiberius only lived for eighteen months after Jim came back from Tarsus.

+

After Tiberius, until Bones, he's never just Jim, without the weight of expectation and the face of a ghost, again.

+

In his bed, on the _Enterprise_ Jim stirred restlessly, irritated into wakefulness by his memories, mingling together in a muddled, mournful dreamstream. It wasn’t always like this on the nights that he had his conferences with the Admirals, but often enough that he was coming to expect it. He sighed and kicked at the covers, loosening them from where they were tucked in at the foot of the bed and rolled onto his side away from Bones, knowing that he was failing miserably at Jim Kirk’s Prime Directive Of Not Disturbing Bones’ Sleep. Not that Bones had ever said a cross word to him on the subject, which in and of itself was rather notable -- Bones being given to cross words even when he didn’t mean them in the least. No. Bones typically enjoyed being woken up in bed by Jim, as long as Jim wasn’t actually in any sort of trouble. Of course, he had other reasons to wake Bones these days, but waking him because the Admirals had triggered things in his own trap-riddled psyche wasn’t one of them. Jim had dealt with this shit on his own for years now. He was fine. Really.

“Jim,” Bones said, his voice thick. He pressed a kiss to the base of Jim’s neck where his shoulder began. “Those bastards say anything in particular?”

“Nah,” he said easily, turning his head to catch Bones’ mouth in a kiss meant to be swift and sweet, but turned lingering and slow at the last second. “Just the usual bullshit.” He kissed Bones once more, then again, but stopped himself from getting too greedy. “Go back to sleep.”

Bones’ eyes were squinty and suspicious in the low light, but they dropped closed after he stared at Jim for a full thirty seconds. Then he grunted a little and used his nose to push Jim’s head so that he wasn’t looking back over his shoulder. “You’ll put your neck out laying like that, Jim,” he said.

Jim couldn’t help the laugh that thoroughly Bones-like statement provoked. “I’m _fine_ , Bones,” he said firmly.

“Prove it,” Bones shot back, kissing the top of his spine. “Go on back to sleep.” He ran his left hand up and down Jim’s chest in a touch meant to soothe, but the warmth of Bones’ sleep-heavy hand and the metal of his ring incited a path of desire which made Jim grit his teeth and work to ignore his body’s response. Bones had had a long day thanks to Engineering and a minor fracture in a plasma conduit that had been contained fast enough, but not before burning several crewmembers. With tomorrow’s schedule beginning in just a few hours, Jim wasn’t going to be a selfish, needy asshole and turn over and pin him to the bed, use Bones’ hands and mouth, and his cock as a sedative. Jim cleared his throat and willed his breathing to slow down so that Bones would go back to sleep, even though he knew he was unlikely to join him. Luckily, he was used to operating on little sleep.

Besides, once Bones went back to sleep he could turn over and watch him. Bones murmured and reacted to whatever he was dreaming about, and was just so damned expressive that Jim couldn’t take his eyes off him. He never got enough time to just _be_ with Bones these days – and it was only when they were alone that he felt free to not be the Captain, to just be Jim. As far as he was concerned it still counted as together time, even if Bones was asleep.

Bones shifted and murmured behind him, but not because he was sleeping. Instead, he was rousing, and sounded worried. Jim ran his hand over Bones’ arm in a caress meant to reassure, trailing his fingers over the firm muscles in his forearm, the presence of which made him smile. His meandering thoughts were interrupted by the sleepy rumble of Bones’ voice. “You wanna get in the tub, kid?”

Jim chuckled. “You’re going to need that tub tomorrow night, old man,” Jim said lightly, still outlining the muscle groups in Bones’ forearm.

“I fail to see what is so humorous about a little friendly competition meant to ensure that the crew remains in peak fitness, Captain,” Bones said with huffy dryness. “Also, I’d like to point out that I have my own water rations, and they work just fine in the Captain’s john.”

“So you don’t mind Spock walking in on us again?” Jim smirked. “It is his night, after all.”

“I still say that was your damned fault for not putting the privacy notice up,” Bones grumbled. “Thank God we were just … relaxing.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Jim’s spine, and tried to pull his arm out of Jim’s grasp, but Jim resisted.

“Bones,” Jim chided, “you’re not even trying to go back to sleep. How’re you going to be at your best in the Strongman Competition tomorrow?”

“You know very well that it’s all-beings competition, Jim,” Bones said, not sounding the least bit perturbed, even though he was still working to extract his hand from Jim’s grasp. “Let go, Jim. Chekov is very proud of the work he did in establishing the rankings so that there were equivalencies for all.”

He pushed Jim over onto his stomach, tugging him into a position that suited him as he walked down Jim’s vertebra with his fingers, muttering as he found something in particular that irked him.

Jim moaned as Bones’ thumbs pressed on either side of his spine dead between his shoulder blades, knowing what was coming. He felt something pop, and a bubble of tension along with it.

Bones kissed his way down Jim’s spine a little farther, then pulled Jim back up, cradling Jim against his chest the way he knew Jim liked it. He put his hand back over Jim’s heart and kissed his neck. “His goddamned formulas were invented in Russia, in case you didn’t know.”

“You’re the true mastermind, Bones,” Jim said, smiling, feeling more relaxed. “And don’t think that the crew hasn’t figured that out.” Of course, only he knew Bones’ real reasons for running the competition, and in the interests of getting him to go back to sleep, he wasn’t about to bring up the inherent contradiction of a man who purported to live by the scientific method being so downright dismissive of research. It didn’t matter that Starfleet had _decades_ worth of data on artificial gravity and its effects on bone density – Bones wasn’t convinced that Starfleet’s grav systems were good _enough_ , considering that they ran on a spectrum designed to accommodate non-Terrans.

Not, of course, that he only worried about the health of his Terran patients aboard the _Enterprise_. No, Bones worried that _everybody_ was too sedentary on the ship. He didn’t want to restrict diets unless he had to, because he recognized the psychosocial importance of food beyond its role as sustenance, so instead he’d created a ship-wide shape up program with Jim’s blessing. Intramural sports were a big part of it, but those weren’t the only contests. Flexibility, endurance (within reason – Bones didn’t much care for extreme sports of any kind), and of course, strength training were included. Jim had wondered if the crew would see through Bones’ diabolical plan to make them exercise more, but he should have known better. Bones might have a rep for being a misanthropic bastard, but the truth was that he really knew people.

Bones snorted sleepily. “As long as you hypercompetitive infants remain true to form,” he said, yawning. “I’ll worry a little less about all y’all becoming depressed.” He paused, shifting behind Jim. “Too much monotony and stress ain’t good for anyone. Makes people stupid.”

Jim kissed Bones’ knuckles, knowing that he was referring to the tweaks in the warp core system that had caused the sparking conduit in the first place. “Don’t worry, Bones,” he said softly. “There isn’t anybody who takes care of people better than you.”

He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the _Enterprise_ , letting the sound of Bones’ even breaths relax him further as he drifted, musing on how Bones had somehow become the morale officer, a title he would vigorously deny as frivolous and demeaning. Because he hadn’t just started up health and fitness activities. No, Bones was as interested in keeping the crew’s minds and spirits as healthy as their bodies. So he’d somehow inveigled crewmembers into turning their hobbies into social activities. The _Enterprise_ had groups for everything from knitting to book clubs to cultural-themed food nights to cooking instruction, dance and chorale societies – hell, he was pretty sure they were starting a show choir. With the addition of Bones’ fitness challenges, the _Enterprise_ didn’t just have the youngest crew with the youngest Captain in the UFP, but the fittest crew as well.

Also, the hottest, but that was just his opinion.

The fittest, though? Seriously, he wouldn’t be Jim Kirk if he hadn’t issued a fleetwide challenge that put his money where his mouth was, especially because he knew that his crew would kick ass. In fact, he was looking forward to announcing their win at his next ridiculous session with the Admirals. Hey, they always wanted to know how things were going, right? Maybe he’d even send them the picture that Uhura had taken of Bones using his t-shirt to wipe the sweat off his incredibly toned and taut chest. Bones had always been in good shape, but now? His chest was only part of the story. Jim stroked Bones’ arm, thinking about the firmness of Bones’ legs. And his ass.

On second thought, he wasn’t sending that picture to the Admirals, because one or two of those bastards might get the great idea that they needed Bones planetside, and then Jim would be fucked, and not in the fun, stress-relieving way, like when Bones …

And well, shit, Jim was trying to sleep here, right? But all he was succeeding in doing was waking himself up again. He held Bones’ hand over his heart, trying to will himself back to slowing down and unwinding, sketching runes over Bones’ skin as he got heavier against him, hopefully relaxing back toward sleep. He let Bones' greater weight press him forward, ground him in the present, connect him to a life he never would have imagined he would have had as a kid.

Not that he hadn’t wanted to go into space as a kid – what kid didn’t want to be a starship Captain?

But, he’d never imagined _this_ , him and Bones. If he’d ever thought about it -- and he really didn’t think that he had – he’d probably just assumed that he’d be like his mom, moving from relationship to relationship. Even seeing his grandparents with their long marriages hadn’t made him think that was the way it would be for him. Not until he went up to Tarsus and lived with Brian and Marinell and saw how it could be between two people. Of course, it was also then that he began to understand a little, maybe, what his mother had lost when his father had died. It had made him wary. Because who wanted to be so wrecked by loss the way his mother was? People _died_. They died all the time. There wasn’t any point in setting yourself up to be even more heartbroken, because real life broke your heart all by itself. So, he’d decided that real life could go fuck itself, because he was going to squeeze all of the fun out of it that he could.

And he did have fun. He traveled. He let the day take him where it would, and during the nights? He had more fun. And yeah, he fucked a lot of beings who were only in it for sensation like he was, but so fucking what? All of the ridiculous judgments about sexual behavior just pissed him off. He used sex for whatever reasons he had, but they were _his_ , and he would maintain until his dying day that it had been good for him. He’d learned a lot – about himself, about technique, and he wasn't going to apologize for it. And yeah, it hadn’t all been great, but he’d learned his limits, and he’d always believed that knowing what you didn’t want was as important as knowing what you did. And maybe he’d pushed some people away that tried to get too close, and he’d hurt some of them – he’d never be able to think of Carol Marcus without feeling a pang of guilt – but he never said he was perfect, or that he hadn’t been an asshole.

He knew that he’d run hot and cold with Carol, and driven her away, convinced himself that it was the right thing, but who knew? Maybe it had been. Because the first time, the very first time, that he’d slept with Bones? He’d woken up after Bones had stabbed him with the hypospray to find himself wrapped up in Bones' arms. Bones' left hand had been pressed open over his heart just like it was now, and he felt … fine. He felt something, and it wasn’t claustrophobia. He’d lain there, tracing Bones' fingers and feeling Bones shift and murmur behind him, remembering the feel of Bones' hand cupping his head as he fixed him, and he felt … safe.

Of course, then he’d panicked, because he knew better, he did, he knew better than to _count_ on things, to count on _people_ , but then Bones had shifted behind him and his lips brushed against Jim's skin. And the touch of them against his skin felt like nothing he'd ever felt before. The sensation had made Jim breathless and a little dizzy, but mostly afraid that Bones would wake up and shift away. So, he’d willed himself to calm down, to be silent and small, every lesson he’d ever learned on Tarsus, and Bones, Bones had pulled him even closer and murmured soothing noises, rubbing his forehead against Jim’s neck, like he knew, like he fucking _knew_ what Jim was doing even though he was asleep.

And that was the way it had always been from that first night until now, Bones taking care of him, and God what the fuck was wrong with him tonight?

He was wide awake again and fighting to remain relaxed, fighting not to turn over in Bones’ arms and kiss him until the whiteout of pure pleasure wiped everything but the moment from his mind.

Not that he was going to do that. It wasn’t Bones’ fault that he was a needy, codependent fuck-up of a partner who couldn’t make himself stay asleep. He’d just wait, until Bones was sound asleep and get up, and go down to the gym and pound the heavy bag until it was time to come back up and clean up before shift. That would work. Fighting had been one of his two defaults, back in the day.

He just would not allow himself to think about the other one, about the weight of muscle and bone and _want_ that being so close to Bones inspired. He was not the same selfish asshole that he had been, the one that had broken Carol’s heart and denied that he even had an idea of what he’d done.

Bones rubbed his nose against the cartilage behind Jim's ear just so, and Jim could barely contain the shiver of need it provoked. Goddamnit, Bones was awake again. "Cut it out, Bones," he said sternly.

"That's just cold," Bones drawled. "Rejecting me like that."

Jim went to turn over in Bones’ arms, but Bones wouldn’t let him, busy as he was, kissing his way across Jim’s shoulder. Bones never played fair, not when he was concerned about Jim. “Bones,” he said firmly, when Bones let him turn over. “You need to go back to sleep.”

Bones’ eyes looked very green in the starlight of Jim’s room. The porthole at the foot of the bed dappled him with streaks of silver that made them shine.

Jim ran his thumb over the wrinkle of worry that he’d made reappear between Bones’ brows and then the curve of his dark eyebrow, before he cupped Bones’ cheek in his hand.

“Is that your professional opinion, Captain?” Bones drawled at him. Bones kissed the fleshy area on his palm near Jim’s thumb, stretching in a way intended to be entirely distracting, the muscles rippling across his chest as he yawned.

Jim smiled at him, transparent as he was in his attempt to use his accent, among other things, to manipulate Jim. “As the person who has to hear it from your staff when you’re less than well-rested?” he asked. “Hell, yes, Bones.” He’d left his hand on Bones’ cheek, wanting to connect with him even as he wanted Bones to go back to sleep.

“Your mouth is saying ‘no’ …” Bones said languidly, pulling Jim away from the edge of the bed and toward him so that they were both laying where their pillows met in the middle of Jim’s bed. He stretched out and tucked his feet underneath Jim’s and flexed up so that Jim’s toes pressed against his strong calves, raising his brow when Jim laughed. “What now, you maniac?”

“I’m pretty sure your psi scores were wrong, Bones,” Jim said, still smiling. That statement got Bones raising the other brow, and Jim couldn’t resist running over it with his forefinger. “I was just thinking about that phrase earlier.”

Bones nodded, smiling a little, but his eyes were serious, checking out if Jim was trying to cajole him into sleep. “Mmm …” he said in that therapist-y way that he had of doing sometime.

Jim hated that voice, he really did. He pinched Bones’ calf, using his toes.

“Ow!” Bones complained. “Cut your goddamned toenails, monkey boy! And why am I getting abused?”

Jim sighed loudly and went to flop over onto his back, but Bones’ unyielding grip on his waist stopped him.

“C’mon, Jimmy,” he said quietly. “Talk to me.”

“Bones,” Jim said, trying to keep his voice level, because he wasn’t – he didn’t want to be irritated at _Bones_ , but he had this way of not letting things go which was just the most annoying – Jim’s mouth twisted at the irony of his thoughts, and he scrubbed his face with this hand and stifled an inappropriate laugh. “You need your sleep.”

Bones’ thumb ran back and forth across Jim’s ribs. “When we’re old men, Jim, I won’t regret lost sleep,” he said quietly. “And I certainly won’t regret any time that I stole from it to spend with you.”

Jim didn’t even try to stop himself, launching himself at Bones and kissing him with equal parts gratitude and lust at his words, although he did stop himself when Bones broke away from him and looked at him in that way he had, silently urging Jim to talk to him. “I just had a bad dream.” Jim drew a line down Bones’ chest with a finger, gently outlining the bulge of muscle.

“You ever notice how often that happens after you talk to the Admirals?” Bones drawled, kissing his forehead.

“Yeah,” Jim said, and sighed again. “I get it.”

“You do?” Bones asked, his tone sharp with surprise although his voice was still low and sleep-hushed in the mid-night quiet of the _Enterprise_.

“Yeah, Bones,” Jim answered, because really, he wasn’t that much of a mystery to himself. Bones’ hand, the one that had been lying against his waist, had begun to make lazy circles on his back, over the spread of his ribs, Bones’ touch reacquainting him with the reality of his body now, of the muscle and sinew and fat that padded his adult frame. He shrugged. “I dream about my childhood when I’m feeling particularly powerless.”

Bones blinked at his admission. His thumb was skimming over Jin’s ribcage, his fingers spread over the faint web of scars that were the only real mark left on him from Tarsus. That was all right though. Jim had known for years that there were plenty of scars that didn’t show. The ones he had didn’t bother him particularly.

“About Tarsus?”

“That oversimplifies it, Bones,” he said. “I think that part of the experience of being a child is about being powerless.”

Bones blinked again in a way that was kind of like he was hiding a wince, which made Jim smile. The guy was an awesome poker player, but when it counted? He could not school his expression to save his life.

“Not for all kids, Jim,” Bones said quietly, trying not to look sad.

“Oh, c’mon, Bones,” Jim said. “It is, too. That’s why little kids have tantrums, or act up or … “ Bones’ eyebrow was officially going crazy now, and Jim frowned at him to discourage the observation about ‘infants’ that he was surely trying to hold in. “Kids don’t get to say what the rules are -- what they can eat, when they go to bed, what they’re allowed to do -- – but they have to live by them. That powerlessness is a part of the whole experience of being a child.”

Bones humphed in a way that let Jim know that he’d carried his point. “Are you saying that the Admirals treat you like you’re a child?”

It was Jim who blinked hard this time. “I guess I am, Bones,” he said slowly, having not connected the dots quite the way Bones had incisively.

“They do trust you, Jim,” Bones said.

“No, they don’t, Bones,” he shot back. “They don’t trust me, and they certainly don’t want to trust Ambassador Spock and what he says, but they’re too frightened, too used to trusting Vulcans to know what else to do.”

“Frightened, Jim?” Bones’ tone was heading into disbelief.

“They’re scared shitless,” Jim said firmly. “They’d be stupid not to be, though.” He lapsed into a moody silence, watching the stars paint Bones with their light for a while. “But they’re letting it paralyze them, Bones. They’re letting it make them too cautious, and if the Romulans, or God help us, the Cardassians think that we’re weak? What if they ally themselves?” He shook his head.

Bones’ brow was drawn down now as he looked at Jim. “Is there something specific that they’re not doing that’s concerning you, Jim?”

“They don’t tell me jackshit, Bones,” he said miserably. “Pike tries, but he gets overruled, and there’s only so much he can say to me on Starfleet’s own comms, because seriously, if you think that they’re not monitoring our comms …”

Bones shook his head grimly. “Pike warned me that there would be spies aboard,” he said. “And they just better hope that I never fucking figure out who they are.”

Jim smiled and ran his hand down Bones’ chest. “See? They don’t trust me. When they look at me, all they see is how young I am.” He laughed. “Tu'kk’ai'nian likes to remind that I got lucky –“ Bones made an indignant noise, but Jim kept talking. “I did, Bones, I did get lucky. I’m lucky that I had you on my side – stop it, Bones,” he said, “and I’m lucky that Uhura was paying attention and …” he sighed. “And they don’t fucking get that the luck that I had is based on having the right intel at the right time. If they don’t tell me what they know, I won’t be able to be lucky the next time.” Jim looked at Bones’ serious face. “And this is exactly why I didn’t want to talk about this.” He pressed his forehead against Bones’. “I don’t want you to worry about this shit.”

“Jim,” Bones said sternly. “I’m not some fragile fucking flower that needs protecting from worry.” He put his hand on the back of Jim’s neck, pulling back so that he could look him in the eye. “I know that there are burdens of command that I can’t share because you’re the Captain and I’m not, but I don’t want you to keep shit from me because you’re worried that I’m too neurotic to handle it. The day we stop talking about the things that plague us is the day that we stop being friends, and trust me, I’ve lived that once before, and I’ll be goddamned if I’ll do that with you. I’m here with you, all the way or nothing.”

Jim held Bones’ intense stare, then leaned forward to kiss him, a silent acknowledgment of Bones’ words. He sighed. “I fucking hate feeling powerless, Bones.”

“I know that darlin’, I do,” Bones said. “But you’re damned good at being the Captain, no matter how much I needle you about it. This crew knows that you’ll always do your best to do right by them, and there isn’t a one of them who doesn’t know what’s at stake, Jim. Hell most of them were with us when we were up against the _Narada_. They _know_ you.”

Jim wrapped his arms around Bones, and held on, letting himself sag into Bones’ strong embrace, letting himself be comforted the way he’d really wanted to be all along.

“I know it too, Jim,” Bones said quietly, one hand stroking up and down his back, the other cupping the back of his head. “And don’t you worry sugar, I’ll remind you of it as I see fit.”

Jim’s laugh was muffled against Bones’ neck, which he kissed.

“I’m also more than willing to kick some more Admiralty ass if necessary,” Bones continued acerbically, and Jim drew back and smiled at him, knowing that he meant it, that Bones would fight all comers for Jim’s sake. “I’m pretty good at it what with my history, and all.”

Jim laughed again, kissing Bones. “Pike’s intimated that a couple of them are kind of afraid of you.”

“As they should be,” Bones growled. “What else does Pike say?”

Jim sighed gustily. “To give it time,” he said simply. “That a year’s service isn’t enough to convince some of them, even with the good we’ve done, especially here in the Neutral Zone. That I just need to …” He broke off and ran a hand over Bones’ shoulder. “You know, there’s not much that I envy the other Kirk about, but I did break his youngest Captain record by a few years. And I think that there are just some Admirals who are never gonna trust me until I have some grey hairs. And I fucking hate being patient when there’s so much at stake.”

Bones’ hand had been running up and over Jim’s waist and back while he was talking, tracing lazy patterns. “You think about him a lot, Jim?” he asked curiously.

Jim couldn’t quite read the expression on Bones’ face, but he knew that Bones saw the Ambassador’s mind meld as an intrusion. “I feel bad for him,” Jim admitted.

“You feel _bad_ for him?” Bones’ eyebrows were at their zenith, and Jim couldn’t help but smile, even though he felt bad for shocking him into a more awake state. He might have to change his mind about the sleep-inducing necessity of orgasm.

“Yeah,” Jim said, explaining. “You know, I’ve made the Ambassador clarify a few things for me, because sometimes … it’s like there’s an echo, like a déjà vu to our experiences --- things that have happened on missions.”

Bones nodded. “OK,” he said, voice wary. “But Jim, I thought that the guy had the happy childhood of your dreams.”

“He did,” Jim said easily. “He really did. But he still went to Tarsus, Bones.” He could feel the tension in Bones’ feet against him, in the way his hand tightened on his back. “Can you imagine what a shock that must have been for him? At least I knew – I had some idea that there were bad people in the universe, knew that things didn’t always work out, you know? He must have …” Jim shook his head. “From what Spock’s told me, it sounds like the older he got, the worse things went for him. And … maybe …”

Jim hesitated, and Bones’ hand slid up from his waist and over his shoulder, cupping the back of his head, like he had the first night when he’d patched up Jim after a fight at Finnegan’s, that first night he’d welcomed Jim into his bed. He couldn’t help the way his breath hitched at Bones’ gesture, and felt himself flushing a bit. He pressed his forehead against Bones’ and raised his hand, mirroring Bones’ gesture. “Maybe he didn’t know how to appreciate what he had, Bones,” he whispered. “Maybe he always only saw what he’d lost, and he missed what he might have had. What he stood to gain.”

Bones’ kiss should have felt more familiar, less thrilling than it did after all this time, after the hundreds of kisses that they’d shared. “Don’t let that happen with us, Jim,” Bones whispered into his mouth, his hand stroking down his body to grasp his cock. “You promise me.”

“I promise,” Jim’s words were strangled, and he could fucking see stars, and not just the streaks of light painting Bones’ body as he reached for the lube and then lined them up in his warm hand. “Bones.” The word was just a breathy moan, and Jim wanted it to mean so much more than he could articulate at the moment – that he couldn’t lose this, wouldn’t lose this, needed Bones’ touch like he needed air to breathe. He reached down between them and grasped Bones at his base, his thumb running up his own cock as he began to pull on them together, his hand following Bones’ up and over in an alternating rhythm so that one of their hands was always on them, holding them together, keeping them united, rubbing the sensitive undersides of their cocks against each other.

“That’s it, Jimmy, c’mon,” Bones said, kissing him. “Need you.”

“Yes,” Jim breathed out, between gulps of air. “Kiss me, Bones.” And he did, and Jim tried to keep his eyes open for as long as he could, until all he could see was white, hear the rasping of their breaths.

“That’s it,” Bones was saying as he came down. “That’s it. So good, Jimmy.”

Jim moaned a response, and kissed Bones softly, trying to express what he couldn’t say. His brain was fogged and his muscles were slack, and he felt Bones stirring in the bed, moving away, and summoned up some energy to reach for him.

“I’m right here,” Bones said, kissing his temple, and Jim felt him cleaning them up with the wipes he kept in the bedside drawer. He pulled away again for a minute, only to roll onto his back and pull Jim against his side.

Jim nosed into his neck and let out an exhausted sigh, slinging his arm across Bones’ chest. He let himself fade from consciousness as Bones ran a hand up and down his spine. The last thing he felt was the touch of Bones’ mouth against his brow, and the whispered words that followed them.

“Not going anywhere, Jim,” Bones said. “Never.”

Under his hand, Bones' heart beat steady and true, and Jim let himself forget about anything other than the feel of Bones’ skin, of his arms around him, and let himself drift out amidst the stars.

+

  


_fin, for now_  



End file.
